


codex entry: The Warden-Commander's Journal

by dwimmerlight



Series: Cinnamon Spider [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Adventure, Betrayal, Blood & Gore, F/F, F/M, Implied star-crossed lovers, Multi, Novelization
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-03
Updated: 2013-07-20
Packaged: 2017-12-17 14:53:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/868801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dwimmerlight/pseuds/dwimmerlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This leather-bound journal is battered, torn, and stained with what appears to be ink and blood. The first several hundred pages detail events during the Fifth Blight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In the High Tower of the Mages

_"The ritual sends you into the Fade, and there you will face a demon, armed with only your will."_   


2 Justinian, 9:30 Dragon,  
     There is much dread and anticipation about the Harrowing. We are told only of the consequences. We knew the Harrowing was a test, but what kind? An essay, a speech? How do we convince the templars and the enchanters that we have earned the privilege of life? All we can do is hold our breath and wait for the night that the templars gracelessly rouse us.  
     Last night, I was able to release that breath. Knight-Lieutenant Wesley woke me at midnight and led me out of the girls’ quarters. He is one of the kinder templars, although every bit as pious as the Knight-Commander himself, but last night he was quiet and distant. Ser Wesley did not need to say anything for me to understand: my Harrowing had come at last. In the morning, I would either be a mage of the Circle or a corpse in the crematorium.  
     Within the Harrowing Chamber, the First Enchanter and Knight-Commander awaited me. And there, in the distance, was Ser Cullen. I think it was then that I was truly afraid. Irving reminded me of past accomplishments, and even Ser Greagoir imparted a token of assurance.  
     But as I walked towards that font of lyrium, I began to shake from the anxiety. It took every ounce of strength to lift my hand and touch the liquid. Then everything went white.  
     — _from the Warden-Commander’s personal journal_

_"Keep your wits about you, mage. True tests never end."_   


2 Justinian, 9:30 Dragon,  
     The Harrowing is terribly ironic. The Chantry believes the Black City was once the seat of the Maker Himself. The Chant of Light preaches that the Blights began because the ancient magisters trespassed upon this most holy of lands. It is a place where no man or woman should ever go to. Yet their Harrowing is to send young apprentices into the Fade, where one can see the Black City no matter where they stand.  
     "You are all sinners for what your predecessors did to the Black City," the Chantry declares. “We’re going to send you to the Fade so you can see the relic of your sins. And you’re going to be sinning while you do it."  
     To be fair, none have ever returned to the Black City since the ancient magisters. But I could not help a smile as I looked upon the silhouette of the Black City and realized that I was here, in this place where the Chantry forbids any to go but forces all mages to go. Now Anders’ behavior the day after his Harrowing makes sense.  
     The Fade is a surreal sort of place. It is difficult to adjust to. One most believe the ground is truly beneath their feet and the air is something that can be breathed. Everything is animate. I was greeted by a mouse, challenged by a spirit in templar’s armor, and riddled by a great bear.  
     I did not pass the riddle, dear journal. I think I know what the correct answer was, but I could not resist a touch of humor. The bear, a demon of Sloth, did not find my witty answer so funny and attacked promptly.  
     The test was not as obvious as I thought upon first blush. The demon that haunted me within the Fade was not the Rage Demon, all fire and anger, but the tiny mouse that shadowed my every step. I thought I was dead for sure when Mouse revealed himself to be a great Pride Demon: the form of which is difficult to recall in these waking hours, but was something huge and terrible to behold. But no, the demon imparted final words of advice and vanished.  
     It seemed that I had fallen asleep again, but I know I was never awake in the Fade. The Harrowing was real and those spirits were real, but my physical body slept through the entire process. This morning was the only time in my life that I have been congratulated for sleeping through an exam.  
     — _from the Warden-Commander’s personal journal_

_"They’ll take everything that I am from me—my dreams, hopes, fears…my love for Lily. All gone."_   


3 Justinian, 9:30 Dragon,  
     It is a terrible feeling to awaken after a trip to the Fade. Everything is stubborn and immovable, and the inanimate objects do not talk back. It is…a lot like the morning after heavy drinking, if one got so drunk they began to converse with the chairs and the paintings.  
     Jowan did not mention my incoherent mumblings to the bed and myself, but in hindsight, he was perhaps a little too preoccupied with what was to come. In the morning, he came for me at the First Enchanter’s orders and left again thereafter.  
     The Circle Tower works in mysterious ways. If there is a secret, everyone will know about it. Somehow, every soul in the tower had learned of my successful Harrowing. It isn’t unusual for mages to go out of their way to congratulate someone else for their Harrowing, yet it felt unusual to be on the receiving end. Yet again I understand Anders’ bitterness the morning after his Harrowing, because it sometimes occurs to me how terrible it is that a mage must prove themselves worthy of living.  
     Perhaps the oddest and most sincere congratulations came from Ser Cullen. He was assigned to kill me should I fail, and so he was the most relieved that I had succeeded. He is like that: kinder and more considerate than other templars, yet bound by the same unwavering loyalty as the rest of them. It can be equally frustrating, as I dearly love everything about him but his piousness.  
     I am sure you can understand, dear journal, why the Chantry is not popular with the mages.  
     Unfortunately, Ser Cullen was not so relieved that he was willing to accept my proposition. Pity. I always wanted to see what he looked like beneath all that armor.  
     There was a brief and informal ceremony in which Irving gifted me with new robes, a staff, and an enchanted ring. I was officially a mage of the Circle. It seemed unusual, as I had been training beneath the Circle of Magi for so long that one sometimes forgets they are not actually part of it. After twelve years, I had earned my right to life.  
     More surprising was the presence of a Grey Warden. The Warden-Commander of Ferelden, in fact. It means very little, as the Grey Warden presence is small at best, but it is a humbling experience to stand before such a man. (He was not particularly keen on my proposition, either, although he seemed to consider it for a moment.)  
     Yet the Grey Warden’s presence was overshadowed by the untimely news Jowan had to deliver. He caught up to me as I left Duncan in his quarters, and from there he brought me to the chapel. I learned that his girl is, in fact, a real girl (Anders would be thrilled), but she is an initiate of the Chantry.  
     Worse, she learned that Irving and Greagoir had authorized the Rite of Tranquility on Jowan. They would brand him for blood magic!  
     — _from the Warden-Commander’s personal journal_

_"And I’m free."_   


3 Justinian, 9:30 Dragon,  
     Suffice to say, I was devastated to hear that my brother had been condemned to the brand. Jowan was understandably feeling far worse. In the heat of the moment, we put our heads together and constructed an escape plan that was immediately set in motion.  
     To say that a mage, an apprentice, and an initiate stole into the Phylactery Chamber sounds rather underwhelming. None of us knew how to pick locks. The only person I know who could pick a lock is presently in solitary confinement. It was only because of Senior Enchanter Sweeney that I was able to retrieve a Rod of Fire from the stockroom. When all else fails, use fire.  
     The first door needed a password and a touch of magic. The second door needed ordinary keys, as it was warded against magic. The third door (or rather, the second second door) was not warded, and the lock melted easily. Immediately thereafter, all the sentinels came to life and attacked us. We fought through the lot of them as we hurried through the corridors and the dungeons and eventually found ourselves at the repository.  
     It appeared to be a dead end, but it was not so. There was a wall crumbling behind an old bookcase and a Tevinter relic that amplifies magic. Once again, when all else fails, use fire. The wall gave way easily, and we crawled through the debris to find the Phylactery Chamber.  
     Only the apprentices’ phylacteries are kept within the tower. The rest are stored in a vault somewhere in Denerim, which is unfortunately where mine was sent the morning after my Harrowing. Phylacteries are vials with mage blood in them, and they can be used to track mages or even cast spells on them from afar. It is a leash, and if I could destroy it, I would. But it was not there, and there was no use in mourning it. Jowan found his and smashed it.  
     We hurried out of the basement, already patting ourselves on the backs, and were immediately cornered by Greagoir and Irving. Greagoir and I have been at odds over the years, so I have suffered his disapproving stare frequently. But Irving was my mentor, almost family, and my heart sank when I heard the disappointment in his voice.  
     Greagoir sentenced the two of us to death and Lily to Aeonar, and it was as the templars advanced that he withdrew a dagger and cut himself. Jowan unleashed a display of blood magic that I have never seen before. It was chilling to behold, and it is only because I have settled into a sort of apathy that I can write about it so calmly. The templars were overwhelmed. Jowan turned to Lily, but she rejected him, and he ran off alone.  
     In the aftermath of the attack, we recovered in shock. Greagoir sentenced Lily to Aeonar and began to consider my execution when the Warden-Commander arrived. Duncan was impressed by my character, and he chose to recruit me into the Grey Wardens. I had heard that he was considering a mage for his ranks, but I never dreamed that it would be me.  
     Greagoir was furious, but he could not stop the recruitment. The Grey Wardens can take whomever they want to, even if they are awaiting a death sentence. I was sad to leave Irving as things were, but such is how it happened.  
     Today I awoke and felt as if yesterday’s events were a terrible dream. Then I felt the grass and mud and Duncan’s ever-watchful gaze, and I remembered that it was all terribly real. Tonight, we sleep on the side of the Imperial Highway in a small makeshift camp. It is exposed and wet, not at all like the tower, and I miss my bunk fiercely.  
     We head south to Ostagar, where the army and the darkspawn await us.  
     — _from the Warden-Commander’s personal journal_


	2. The Battle of Ostagar

_"To defeat the darkspawn, we have to work together. It’s not an idea everyone seems able to grasp."_

16 Justinian, 9:30 Dragon,  
     For years, we dreamed of life outside the Circle of Magi. We dreamed of vast skies and open lands, of roads to follow without templar-escorts. None of our dreams consisted of throbbing legs, aching backs, and swollen feet. So the last two weeks have passed, with pain building atop pain until it amounted to a dull ache.  
     I have been far too tired to tend to my journal, much less anything else. Last night, I dreamed of whispers in the dark. I have ignored my daily meditations for far too long.  
     Ostagar is at last upon us. It is a massive fortress that dominates the most southern of Ferelden territory. Standing atop the cliff is a bit like standing at the edge of the world: although I am aware the Chasind and various horrors live within the wilds, to most Fereldens, the world simply stops at the edge of the Korcari Wilds. The land there is harsh and frozen. The fortress itself is ancient Tevinter in origin, and one can still make out the weather-worn engravings of Old Gods and fire.  
     King Cailan must have seen our approach, for he came down the road with his escorts and greeted us in person. Perhaps I should have been flattered that His Majesty took the time out of his day to greet a lonely mage, but the last two weeks have taken their toll on me. I have walked far, glowered at by all manner of civilian and templar who recognized by my robes, and I am far dirtier than I ever have been in my life. So I traded politeness for wit, and His Majesty seemed to appreciate it.  
     Duncan has left me to myself for a few hours. I have eaten the grayish stew served to the soldiers, and here I sit in the heart of the fortress. The soldiers are anxious. Their last three battles are victories, but their army has grown smaller in number while the darkspawn horde has grown ever larger. This evening’s battle has felt like a dream until now, too surreal for a freshly-Harrowed mage to cope with.  
     I was somewhat pleased to see Senior Enchanter Wynne. She is a bit of a loyalist at times, but she is a kind and wise woman who has earned a great deal of freedom from the Circle. We spoke a little of magic and darkspawn, but I did not tell her about Jowan. She will learn in time.  
     I managed, through a great deal of questioning, to secure an audience with Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir, the Hero of River Dane. He is and is not a big man: a burly sort of soldier, all muscle, grizzled with age. To stand in his shadow feels similar to standing beside Duncan. Teyrn Loghain was considerate of my questions and relatively tolerant of my magic, unusual for a politician second to the king himself. He does not seem concerned about the battle, yet is determined to proceed with caution. Teyrn Loghain is far more level-headed than our young and enthusiastic king.  
     I have also met a mabari hound. Dogs are not allowed within the Circle Tower, though one or two apprentices owned one in their previous lives. The poor beast is sick and frail, and he cowered from me when I helped the kennel master muzzle him. Yet he is a big and proud beast. I have this fantasy that he might adopt me as his mistress. It would be a sight to see: the young Grey Warden mage and her war hound. Even the darkspawn would cower!  
     But such fancies are not for now. I shall rest a while longer, then proceed to find the Grey Warden recruits and Alistair. We have much to do.  
     — _from the Warden-Commander’s personal journal_

_"Take them to your Grey wardens and tell them this Blight’s threat is greater than they realize!"_

16 Justinian, 9:30 Dragon,  
     For the last two weeks, I have not bothered to conceal my aches or pains from Duncan and have complained openly of them. Today, I am beginning to understand how the journey to Ostagar was the simplest task to accomplish.  
     Two other recruits awaited us in Ostagar: Daveth, a cutpurse found in Denerim, and Ser Jory, a knight of Redcliffe. It is they who have shown the diversity of the Grey Warden ranks, for kings and murderers alike may be conscripted and forced to fight alongside each other. What does that make me? Daveth is a thief, Ser Jory a knight, and I am the mage doomed for execution after aiding a blood mage’s escape. Perhaps I should not consider myself such a paragon.  
     At Duncan’s request, I found Alistair by his colors. The four of us returned to Duncan for our first assignment. Ser Jory, Daveth, and I were to travel into the Korcari Wilds and retrieve vials of darkspawn blood. In addition, we were to find a collection of old treaties. Alistair, a Grey Warden of six months and the most junior of the order, was to escort us.  
     The Korcari Wilds is not a place I would appreciate returning to. It is cold and harsh, frozen and slick. The shadows hide darkspawn rogues, the local beasts fight darkspawn soldiers. As we walk between battles, the wilds are eerily silent. I felt that I was being watched.  
     We bottled the sticky red blood of the darkspawn (which was not black, as some of the legends state) and found the archive. The journey was fairly straightforward, although we faced a rather nasty band of darkspawn beneath an emissary that nearly destroyed my robes. It was my own luck that we found an old Chasind cache with a set of decent, if immodest, leather robes inside.  
     My combat experience is limited to the Fade, although I have an arsenal of destructive spells at my command. Yet I feel that nothing could have prepared me for the darkspawn: hideous mockeries of men, oozing corruption, pale and black and armed with wicked-looking weapons. I was not prepared. But fate does not allow for that sort of excuse, and so we pressed on until we reached the archive.  
     It was there that we were discovered by Morrigan, who may or may not be a Witch of the Wilds. She took us to her mother, who had discovered the treaties long ago and took them for safekeeping. The old woman was an odd sort, possibly mad, but she gave us no trouble.  
     Armed with treaty and blood, we have returned to the ruins of Ostagar, a little less for the wear. Duncan has gone to the mages to prepare something for the ritual. Alistair’s duty has ended, but he is kind enough to sit with the three of us in the heart of the fortress.  
     The soldiers are anxious. Here we sit and stare into the fire and say nothing. The darkspawn seem like a distant threat.  
     — _from the Warden-Commander’s personal journal_

_"Even the best-laid plans go awry, so do what you must. I trust you both."_

16 Justinian, 9:30 Dragon,  
     There is precious little time before the eve’s battle, yet I feel compelled to sit alone and write. Since our arrival this morning, I have trespassed upon the Korcari Wilds, met a supposed Witch of the Wilds, killed darkspawn, and experienced a freedom in my magic that I have never before felt. My blood sings with freedom and anxiety.  
     I have also drunk from the Grey Warden’s chalice and witnessed the deaths of my fellow recruits. I feel the most pity for Ser Jory. Daveth suffered a reaction of some kind and died a painful death, but Ser Jory made a terrible choice. The recruits are considered Grey Wardens, and we die a Grey Warden’s death, and none are allowed to leave once the Warden-Commander has made his decision. It is a pity that such a knight died to cowardice.  
     I was not unconscious for long, but in that time, I dreamed of a massive dragon with rotted flesh and skeletal wings. Its eyes, two pinpoints of green fire, stand out the most vivid in my memory. It was a terrible thing to behold, and I am beginning to understand the Grey Wardens’ reputation as grim and aloof. Who could socialize with someone outside the order after witnessing such horrors? And Alistair and Duncan both claim that monstrosity is out there, somewhere. I shudder to think that I might see it with my own eyes.  
     By King Cailan’s order, Alistair and I are to travel to the Tower of Ishal. There we will light the beacon, and Teyrn Loghain and his men will come out from cover and flank the darkspawn horde. The shadow and trickery is curious, but I have heard rumor that such a great warrior was once little more than a farmhand and a poacher. (The latter is not often discussed, as it supposedly brings shame to his reputation.) It would make sense that Teyrn Loghain is not as devoted to honorable knighthood as many of his soldiers.  
     It is now apparent that Teyrn Loghain and King Cailan have little love for each other. Even more noticeable is the bitter hatred between the Revered Mother and Senior Enchanter Uldred. I know the senior enchanter from the tower: a prodigy, the youngest senior enchanter to be promoted since before the Orlesian Occupation, but with a clear distaste for empty-headedness and a lack of patience for virtually anything. He has never taken on apprentices, and the rest of us were privately grateful of that fact.  
     The Chantry reviles proud and accomplished mages, particularly Libertarians such as the senior enchanter. I would almost feel pity for him, were it not for the venomous glare he shot me as we left the strategy meeting. He has always disliked me, and I believe it has something to do with my apprenticeship to First Enchanter Irving. Perhaps it was my taste in friends, my kinship to Jowan and friendship to Anders. Perhaps he is envious of my newfound freedom, which has already come at a high cost.  
     I do not know. I only know that I wish never to see that look again.  
     Alistair and I will soon make our way across the bridge. I am intimidated by our daunting task, and so is he. Though he has been a Grey Warden for six months, Alistair has little more experience than I do. I do not yet know how I feel about working with a former templar, but this evening’s events will tell me whether this is a boon or a blessing.  
     Tonight is not the night to fail.  
     — _from the Warden-Commander’s personal journal_

_"It has always been the Grey Wardens’ duty to unite the lands against the Blight."_

19 Justinian, 9:30 Dragon,  
     Three days have passed.  
     The eve of the battle seems like a terrible dream. The skies clouded, lightning flashed, and a veil of rain descended upon us. Alistair and I crossed the slick bridge: boulders were hurled through the air from the valley far below, something collided with the side of the bridge and several soldiers vanished over the edge. The valley below was all fire and smoke and screams.  
     Two of Teyrn Loghain’s men met us in the field: darkspawn had intruded upon the Tower of Ishal. There was a small, frightened part of me that would rather turn back. Still, we pressed on, driven by instinct than rational thought. Darkspawn poured out of the tower and filled the courtyard. We fought them in the rain and the mud, illuminated by brief flashes of lightning.  
     The tower was dark and cold, but dry. We tracked water across the floors and shivered in our wet armor. The darkspawn were hidden in the shadows. Emissaries unleashed magic on us from afar. Alistair was quick in silencing them. I was appreciative for his talents.  
     Our battle through the tower felt surreal, but the ogre on the uppermost floor was horrifyingly real. I was unable to move at the sight of it: all mottled muscle, sharp claws, thick horns. The bones in its hand were the first remains we had seen, for the men of the tower were simply gone and not a corpse remained.  
     It seemed that only a moment had passed, then the soldiers and Alistair were on the floor. The ogre charged at me. My heart seemed to stop; I watched my death run towards me. My hands moved of their own accord: there was a flash of ice, and the ogre fell over dead. It was then that I was able to heal my companions of their surface wounds and rouse them.  
     We started the flame and settled against the back wall to recover. Perhaps we were there for a few minutes or so, still breathless and bleeding, when the door flung open and the darkspawn charged in. I remember a sharp pain to my neck and shoulder and nothing else.  
     I awoke this morning in the Korcari Wilds. The witch, Morrigan, was there to greet me. She explained Teyrn Loghain and his men quit the field, and the battle ended in slaughter. I can scarcely believe her, though I do not think she is lying to me. There is a small part of me that thinks I should return to the fortress of Ostagar and see the result of the battle for myself. But Morrigan and her mother have both warned the valley is still flooded with darkspawn.  
     Morrigan’s mother has apparently saved us. She took the form of a giant bird and plucked us from the uppermost floor, according to her daughter. And she is Flemeth, according to herself, but she could not possibly be Flemeth of Highever, from the legends. Flemeth of Highever was born at the start of the Towers Age. She would be more than six hundred years old!  
     Yet, I find myself almost believing Alistair’s accusation. Whatever the truth may be, Flemeth of Korcari is not an ordinary apostate, but we owe her our lives.  
     It is too much to think the soldiers, the king, and the Grey Wardens are all dead. I am in disbelief. I almost feel that we should return to the battlefield. Yet Flemeth is right: the only way is forward. She has sent her daughter with us, and the three of us travel north towards Lothering.  
     — _from the Warden-Commander’s personal journal_


	3. Fear and Loathing in Lothering

_"I think he was looking for you."_

20 Justinian, 9:30 Dragon,  
     We have left a massacre in our wake. I still feel numb towards the devastation the darkspawn have caused, and perhaps I am in denial, but Morrigan and her mother have yet to give me cause to distrust them.  
     However, there is no denying the darkspawn horde. The Grey Wardens eventually develop the ability to sense the darkspawn and their taint, but such is a two-way lane, with the darkspawn capable of the same. My sense has not come into fruition as of yet, although I dreamed of buzzing last night, but Alistair is fully capable. So we must smuggle him through the wilds, and sometimes I wonder if Morrigan is as concerned as I am.  
     We owe her much, but it is clear that Morrigan and Alistair despise each other. Alistair seems a good man on most occasions, but his Chantry upbringing makes itself evident at the worst of times. Morrigan has every right to dislike the Chantry, but her opinion of the Circle of Magi is far too harsh. Nevertheless, Alistair and Morrigan have taken to each other instantly and in the worst possible way.  
     Since yesterday, we have traveled either in silence or to their constant bickering.  
     Earlier today, however, we gained a new companion: the mabari war hound from Ostagar. He has made a complete recovery and arrived in time to warn us of a band of darkspawn. As soon as we cut down the last of the foul creatures, the large beast promptly sat at my feet and looked at me in earnest. I could not resist him, and so I have taken him with us.  
     After some consideration, I have chosen to name him Dane, after the old legend. He is a good hound, although he stares at me woefully until I share some of my dried beef and he takes over much of my bedroll. Even now he has his massive head on my knee, making it very difficult to write. Yet I love him already.  
     Now that I know what I know about the Joining, I am curious about the flowers from the Korcari Wilds. Did the kennel master’s flower speed Dane’s recovery? Or did he undergo an informal Joining sans lyrium?  
— _from the Warden-Commander’s personal journal_

_"Look at the people here. They are lost in their despair, and this darkness, this chaos…will spread."_

22 Justinian, 9:30 Dragon,  
     It has taken three days, but at last we have come upon Lothering. We hoped to resupply and consider the next step, but misfortune awaited us on the Imperial Highway in the form of bandits. These men were utterly non-threatening in comparison to the sadistic templars that I have grown up with, but they had ill news of the Grey Wardens: Teyrn Loghain is on his way to Denerim, set to declare himself regent, and he has already put a bounty on the heads of our order. He blames us for the massacre at Ostagar.  
     Alistair was understandably devastated. I have no faces to place with names, but I traveled with Duncan for two weeks. He was single-mindedly focused on ending the Blight before it could threaten the country. Now Teyrn Loghain smears his reputation so soon after his death. If he is dead.  
     Lothering is in chaos. Its borders are brimming with refugees, every bed and scrap of dirt taken for the night, and the defenseless masses huddle in fear and ponder their next move. The Revered Mother is focused on evacuating the small village. They all seem intent on traveling to Denerim, but it too will be overcrowded in due time. Yet the darkspawn are nearly upon the small village.  
     As the darkspawn threaten us from so near, Teyrn Loghain has done what he can to impede our every step. His captain found us in the inn and attacked us openly there. He even threatened a lay sister when she attempted to talk him down. So we fought, and he begged for his life before we killed him. The lay sister spoke on his behalf, and it was only due to her words that I sent the man running.  
     The lay sister is an odd sort, but earnest. She is Leliana, an Orlesian. She claims to have seen a vision of the Blight, and it is the Maker’s will that she help us against the darkspawn. Although I have sincere doubts of this, we are not in any position to turn aside help.  
     On the outskirts of the town, we found an imprisoned qunari. I have never met a man such as he, so I stood there and talked to him. His name is Sten, and he readily confessed to the murders of a family on a farm. He confessed to regret and guilt, or something like it, and he intended to atone for his actions with his death. Sten is a big man and a soldier, and so Leliana and I convinced the Revered Mother to release him into my custody. At the very least, not even a convicted murderer deserves to die in such a terrible place.  
     We have already left Lothering. The situation there is so desperate that we were attacked by refugees as we left the village. They were nothing more than starving and unarmed men, yet they fought us to the death. We could not deter them, and so we killed them.  
     In grief, Alistair and I decided to shed our colors for a while. Let no one else die because of our order. We have found a campsite, and here we shall rest for the night. Our journey begins again tomorrow.  
     — _from the Warden-Commander’s personal journal_

_"The archdemon, it…’talks’ to the horde, and we feel it just as they do. That’s why we know this is really a Blight."_

23 Justinian, 9:30 Dragon,  
     I dreamed of the Archdemon again. But I was not asleep for a few minutes, as was the case during the Joining. This was a proper sleep. Though the Archdemon haunted my steps in the Fade for what seemed a few seconds, I was asleep for more than half the night.  
     Alistair dreamed of the Archdemon. He looked old and drawn when I awoke; he stared into the fire, uncharacteristically quiet, and had little to say. I am learning of the harsh life Grey Wardens must lead. It is the sort of life that not a thousand words could properly describe.  
     We are tainted. We dream of wicked things and here their voices. We will die young. It is a humbling thought. Above all else, we are the ones who ought to end the Blight. My journal has become a dire possession of mine. If we die before the Blight is ended—and that is a terribly possible reality—the world ought to know it was not as Teyrn Loghain claimed. The Grey Wardens tried.  
     Alistair and I remained awake until dawn. Bodahn Feddic and his son, whom we met on the outskirts of Lothering when we rescued them from darkspawn, happened upon our camp and offered us a discount. We shed our colors for new robes and armor.  
     Dane has followed me for most of the morning, and our new companions aroused themselves around dawn. I have taken the time to speak with my new companions. Leliana has been a lay sister for two years, and she told me a little of her life as a minstrel. Morrigan and I spoke little of her shape-shifting talents, and it is clear that so much of her magic does not work well with the Circle’s method of instruction. Sten awoke before everyone else, but he had little to say other than to accuse me of being a man. A Grey Warden cannot be a woman, he says. The qunari continues to confuse me.  
     I am considering traveling due north. Lothering was not a complete loss. We learned Arl Eamon of Redcliffe is ill, and his knights have been sent on a fool’s errand. The knight we came across meant to travel to Denerim to meet with Brother Genitivi. I heard rumors the Circle of Magi has been overtaken by demons. Alistair assured me these sorts of rumors are common, but I cannot rest.  
     We will return to the tower first. My word may mean little there, but Knight-Commander Greagoir might still allow the tower’s more gifted healers to visit with Arl Eamon, who is a man of great standing. From the tower, we will travel southwest to Redcliffe. We begin in a few hours.  
     — _from the Warden-Commander’s personal journal_


	4. Broken Circle

_"We saw only demons, hunting templars and mages alike."_

2 Solace, 9:30 Dragon,  
     My fears were hardly for naught. Those gossips in Lothering did not spread idle rumor, but a truth almost too difficult to believe.  
     We reached Lake Calenhad this evening. The night was growing on, and we planned to rent a room at the tiny inn on the shore. But I spied a man on the docks with the rowboat, Lissie, and he was not old Kester. It was Ser Carroll, an odd sort of templar the younger apprentices often avoid, for he is difficult to communicate with.  
     Against the weary protests of my companions, I talked with Kester first and Ser Carroll thereafter. Old Kester knew nothing, and Ser Carroll knew plenty and refused to speak of it. It took a bribe of cookies, courtesy of the large and silent Sten, for him to take us across the lake at all.  
     The entrance hall was locked and barred. Wounded templars were crouched in the corners. The able-bodied guarded the interior door with their weapons drawn. I was immediately concerned. Though Greagoir and I have a mutual dislike for each other—particularly as he attempted to order my execution and brand my brother—we set aside our differences for the moment.  
     Greagoir is a templar, and thus pious, but he is not imaginative or unrealistic. He is practical. When a man like Greagoir claims the tower has been overrun, one must understand that it is as he claims. And Greagoir claimed the tower has been overrun—by abominations and demons, of all things.  
     I find this difficult to believe. A month ago, the tower was in fair shape. But there is nothing else to explain the injuries, the bloodstains, or how the entrance hall has been locked down as it has been. Not even the bravest part of my being wishes to pass through those locked doors, but I am left with no choice: Greagoir has already sent for the Right of Annulment from Denerim. If I succumb to my nerves, my fellow mages will all be put to the sword simply due to proximity. I cannot be weak now.  
     — _from the Warden-Commander’s journal_

_"They were coming from the meeting room, and it wasn’t long before I saw the first abomination, running down a mage."_

2 Solace, 9:30 Dragon,  
     Perhaps I ought to spend this time resting, but I would rather write of the tragedy that has seized my former home. Let it be known that I share no love for the Circle. Though my short time in the Grey Wardens has been bloody and tragic, I embrace my newfound freedom more than the twelve years of imprisonment I endured within the tower.  
     Not even the Circle of Magi deserves this, however. There are bodies everywhere. Some are mutated, others are skinless and decapitated. Blood stains the stone. The air smells of copper and salt. It is a grisly, terrible scene, and I have written only of the dead.  
     Senior Enchanter Wynne guarded the entrance hall on the first floor. She maintained a barrier over the door and protected children and apprentices, aided by a lone Harrowed mage, Petra. My heart sunk when I saw the dirty, bloody crowd was missing several familiar faces: Eadric, Anders, Jowan, the last of which I know not what became of him.  
     There for a moment, I feared Wynne would openly attack. She was uncharacteristically suspicious of the templars, but she would know more of the Right of Annulment than I. She explained a rebellion has seized the tower, the end result of a meeting that took place with the enchanters. Greagoir would allow the mages to live only if we rescued my former mentor, Irving, and so our path is set.  
     Before today, I have never seen an abomination, with the exception of drawings in old tomes. An abomination is a horror, a creature that resembles a demon with the mage’s skin stretched over it. I shook fiercely when I first saw one, and our party noticeably stumbled as the first abomination came around the corner. Then we were shocked into numbness, and we were forced to continue without hesitation or stopping.  
     Demons sweep through the halls, all fire and rage. They resemble the rage demon that haunted me in the Fade, the creature that posed as the object of my Harrowing, but they are far more overwhelming here.  
     We found a brief respite on the second floor, where we discovered Owain was still tending to the stockroom. He attempted to flee and encountered Wynne’s barrier, and thereafter returned to work. It was he who told us of the Litany of Adralla, a book used to ward against mind domination, which is currently in Niall’s possession.  
     Wynne cautioned us to be observant for blood mages, and we continued. Farther into the tower, we began to find living mages. They cut themselves and commanded magic far greater than their power. One small group drew the attention of an abomination—or perhaps they summoned it—and were swiftly cut down before we could react.  
     We found Moira, an older apprentice overdue for her Harrowing. She attacked us openly, and it was only after we had overwhelmed her that she begged for her life. She told us that Senior Enchanter Uldred promised Loghain’s support in their division from the Chantry. They believed violence was necessary for a dramatic change to the Circle.  
     I understand her desperation, although I despise what she and her ilk have done to the tower. I chose not to kill her, and we left her there with the bodies of her fellows.  
     On the third floor, we encountered a desire demon and a possessed templar. I acted rashly and threatened the demon, who turned the templar on us and woke the dead all around us. Skeletons came to life and swarmed us. I remember the demon’s ice magic seizing me over and over again, until everything went black.  
     When I returned to consciousness, my companions were on the floor and Leliana was backed into a corner. It felt like a dream: she fought gracefully and sharply, wielding two daggers, her longbow forgotten on the floor, and cut down the last of the skeletons and the templar alone.  
     We recovered in the silence that followed, each of us owing our lives to the lay sister. Here we sit in the room, recovering and healing, taking advantage of poultices and a few lyrium potions.  
     Wynne and I have spoken of Uldred. He traveled straight from Ostagar to the tower, while Wynne remained behind to tend to the wounded. When she arrived, he had convinced the Circle of Loghain’s support. Wynne revealed Loghain’s treachery to Irving, who thereafter arranged a meeting to confront Uldred with this information. Wynne was not present at the meeting, but recovering in her quarters, and she was there when the door flung open and mages and abominations poured out.  
     Every mage deserves freedom, but I fear what they have done for future generations. The Grand Cleric, in her infinite wisdom, will use this to tighten the noose around my fellow mages’ necks a little more.  
     But that is a thought for survivors. We must focus on scouring the tower until we find Uldred.  
     — _from the Warden-Commander’s personal journal_

_"Aren’t you tired of all the violence in this world?"_

2 Solace, 9:30 Dragon,  
     I encountered a spirit of Sloth within the Fade, as I was pursued by the rage demon during my Harrowing. That fateful night seems like an age ago, though it was little more than a month. The spirit of Sloth claimed, “Not all demons are demons." I have wondered about those words, as it seemed that all demons are demons, but tonight I have witnessed the terrible reality of it.  
     A true demon was inside the heart of the templars’ quarters on the third floor. It stood over Niall’s body. This abomination was a horror, mutated and bloody and bulging. But when it spoke, its words pulled at my heart. “Aren’t you tired of all the violence in the world?" it asked. There was a small part within me that thought: Yes, I am tired of the violence of the world. And I was weak for a moment.  
     That moment was all that was necessary, as I awoke in the Fade. I walked through a village, and none of the villagers glared or cursed as I passed. And there was Ser Cullen. It was then that I remembered the abomination, as I have not yet seen any evidence of him since we returned to the tower. I am worried for him.  
     Leliana and Alistair were placed in pleasant dreams as I was, but Wynne was locked in a nightmare, surrounded by the corpses of the apprentices she had failed to protect. It took much work to rouse the lot of them, and they disappeared once they became aware. Though I was worried for their safety, I continued on through the Fade, and we were reunited in the core of the demon’s domain.  
     The sloth demon offered to recreate our dreams and make them realistic. I confess, there was a moment when I deeply considered it. To experience that sort of fulfillment again, to be daring and accept a proposal…Mages do not have relationships nor get married. We steal moments; we do not embrace them. I buried my feelings, and he never acted on his, for mages and templars are not on the same side.  
     I heard myself deny the demon. It was furious, and it attacked. The demon took the shape of an ogre, a rage demon, a shade, and attacked us repeatedly. The assault was vicious. At last, it returned to its natural state and summoned a massive blizzard over the area. I summoned a cone of fire that cut through the blizzard like a dagger and burned the demon to nothing. The flames were enormous, and I was afraid I could not control them.  
     Magic is different in the Fade. It fills one up, pours from their skin, infects everything.  
     Niall found me again. He knew of his impending death, though I thought I might heal him. He refused and instructed me to take the Litany of Adralla from his body and let him die. We spoke very little in the tower, but his death remains with me.  
     I awoke thereafter to Dane beside me, whimpering sadly and licking my face. We recovered and found the abomination had perished. Niall’s corpse was cold and still, and we knew then there was nothing we could do for him. I have the Litany of Adralla, a small and unassuming book.  
     Wynne, Alistair, and I are still sore from the devastating attack earlier. We are drawn and exhausted. So we have chosen to rest for the moment, then continue onwards.  
     I must confess, I am not looking forward to this. Mages deserve freedom. I think back to the false reality within the Fade, as it is still vivid in my mind, and wish for that reality to be true. But this rebellion will not free mages. It will doom us, so long as the Chantry has their way.  
     — _from the Warden-Commander’s personal journal_

_"A mage is but the larval form of something greater."_

2 Solace, 9:30 Dragon,  
     There was a noticeable increase in violence as we ascended through the tower. Leliana and Alistair were surprised to find the worst of it on the third floor, within the templars’ quarters, but Wynne and I understood. For this slaughter, this massacre, was an expression of the pent-up hatred all mages harbored towards the Chantry.  
     And so it was that we found the worst of the violence inflicted upon the priests and the templars. Their corpses, bloated and rotting, were strung up in the corridors. The templars were left to rot where they had fallen. We found the corpse of the Revered Mother outside the Harrowing Chamber, her eyes removed and her mouth sewn shut.  
     There were few mages on the third floor, but it was thick with abominations. It was after I encountered Uldred that I truly understood: the mages below whispered of leaving, but the mages above had accepted the “gift" of Uldred. They were his most devout and loyal followers.  
     At the base of the staircase to the Harrowing Chamber, we found Ser Cullen. He was imprisoned within a magical cell or some kind, the likes of which I have never before witnessed. The poor man was beyond delirious, begging for death, thinking I was some kind of vision. It took much convincing before he accepted that I was indeed real. Once he had recovered, he revealed the templars were tortured “like animals" and some were turned “into monsters." He is the last survivor, though I do not know why.  
     Uldred had prisoners in the Harrowing Chamber, and Ser Cullen was convinced they were beyond saving. He was furious when I turned down his pleas. It stung when he spat venom at me, as I have never seen him so angry. Yet I could not let him convince me otherwise. I would not damn the mages to death without seeing their state for myself.  
     Within the Harrowing Chamber, we came upon Uldred and his abominations just as he forcibly turned one of the prisoners. The man was thrown about like a doll, his skin and robes splitting, until a bloody and hulking mass rose to its feet and took its place behind him. It was a stomach-turning sight. But behind him was Irving and other survivors.  
     Uldred acted odd, and it was then that I truly understood Niall’s words. In the Fade, Niall explained that Uldred had attempted to summon a pride demon. The ritual had somehow failed and ended with a terrible scream. All that was Uldred was gone. The pride demon had possessed his body, though it had access to his memories. The demon meant to put down the Chantry, starting with its army, and pull more of its brethren across the Veil.  
     The demon attempted to coerce Wynne and I into accepting his gift, and thereafter decided to force demons into our beings after defeat. This battle was the last, and so we poured every ounce of our magic and strength into the fight that ensued. The demon fought with fire and ice, occasionally stopping to threaten the survivors. We did not react quick enough the first time, and the mage bubbled and bled into an abomination. The second man was saved, and the demon fell soon after.  
     Irving and the mages were severely wounded, but alive. We escorted them downstairs. There we found the magical cell had vanished and Ser Cullen had gone ahead of us. We descended the blood-streaked tower, sore and exhausted, and confronted Greagoir on the first floor.  
     We were tired, injured, and dirty. I was grateful that Greagoir took Irving at his word and chose not to act upon the Right of Annulment. However, Ser Cullen was adamantly opposed to this. I worry for him, as he was not so hard towards the mages before the massacre, and it hurt to hear his accusations. Yet Greagoir would have none of it and stood by his oath. In gratitude, Irving chose to lend the Grey Wardens the mages’ help against the Blight. They would march against the darkspawn at our sides.  
     In truth, I had altogether forgotten about the treaty with the Circle of Magi. But I understand Irving’s decision: it would be terrible to survive the massacre and die to the Blight. Our treaty gives them the freedom to fight. So they will rest and recover and march to war.  
     We have chosen to remain in the tower until our wounds have begun to heal. Wynne tells me that I have injuries to the back of my head that could be quite serious. I am meant to remain in bed until it heals. Though I am tired and sore and injured, I am already restless. I will try to sleep tonight, then perhaps wander the tower tomorrow.  
     — _from the Warden-Commander’s personal journal_

_"Irving told me he was relieved Duncan was still willing to recruit you."_

3 Solace, 9:30 Dragon,  
     I am impatient and restless, yet Wynne has done all that she could to keep me bed-ridden for most of the day. Alistair and I have been confined to cots until our injuries begin to heal. Leliana was allowed to leave hours before either of us, as her injuries were significantly less due to her grace and agility. Despite enduring several nasty cuts and burns, Wynne has shown no sign of slowing or stopping and will listen to no one who tells her to do either.  
     Perhaps it is this that motivated her to speak with Irving. Wynne is determined to travel with us, and her skill over the last day has proven that we are in desperate need of a proper healer. Irving has granted permission to her request. When we depart from the tower, she will join us.  
     Alistair and I had time to talk, as we were both restless and frustrated. We spoke a little of his training and his time at the monastery. I know of his mother, a serving girl at the castle, and Arl Eamon, who raised him until the age of ten, when his young wife could no longer stand the rumors that Alistair was his own bastard. Alistair has been honest in his opinion of the Chantry. His upbringing is evident at times, and it can be quite frustrating, but I do agree that he is a far better Grey Warden than templar.  
     I managed to steal away from my cot for a time. Although I meant to find Ser Cullen, I found Morrigan instead. Her mother’s grimoire is somewhere in the tower, withholding all sorts of secrets useless to anyone unfamiliar with Flemeth, and she wishes to seize the chance to recover it.  
     Wynne found us then and redirected me to the cot. We talked of Jowan and my recruitment into the Grey Wardens. I confess that I spend a lot of time thinking of Jowan. My new life is difficult and hard, and I sleep deeply, but my dreams are clouded with visions of him. There are times that I do not feel as a Grey Warden, but a mage that was accidentally released from the tower.  
     Yet I did not expect Wynne to tell me of Irving’s private thoughts on the matter. I recall his disappointment, his discouragement of my recruitment. He was angry and hurt. But Wynne claims that he was relieved Duncan recruited me despite the situation. I wish to speak to him, but Wynne will not allow it until tomorrow. Until then I have Alistair and Dane for company.  
     — _from the Warden-Commander’s personal journal_

_"I wish you well. Know you will always be welcome here."_

4 Solace, 9:30 Dragon,  
     To write the Circle of Magi is in a state of recovery would be an understatement, for the wounds are far too raw and open. I have seen templars on their hands and knees scrubbing blood from the floors; I have overheard mages in their rooms talk anxiously of the impending war.  
     Greagoir has accepted our rescue of Irving as proof the Circle will recover. He has sent a messenger after Ser Wesley, either to confront him on the road or to confront the Grand Cleric in Denerim. The mages will live for now.  
     Wynne allowed Alistair and I to leave our cots, and so we took to traversing the tower almost immediately. It is remarkable that I have spent merely a month on the road, yet two days without movement has driven me nearly mad. I was far more complacent as an apprentice.  
     Irving was within his office. He set aside a moment for me, and there we sat and discussed the Grey Wardens and the mages and the darkspawn and our demise. It was surreal. There were times when I felt an apprentice again, and others when I was painfully aware of my burden. Irving promised we would speak again, if we both survived the Blight, as there was much to discuss.  
     Thereafter, Irving was summoned by the mages to a meeting. I can only imagine the overhaul the tower must endure to compensate for the coming battles, as mages must train for combat and the tower must be cleansed. I was alone in the office when I remembered Morrigan’s request. I felt somewhat guilty, but I searched his office and discovered a tome matching her description. What sort of hedge magic is hidden within that tome? I wonder if Morrigan is able to translate some of that magic to me and how useful it will be.  
     I ought to have found my companions and roused them for our travels, but I ascended the staircase outside the office and went to the templars’ quarters instead. There I found Ser Cullen. Greagoir has already put him back to work, but he had the hour to himself. We spoke a little. Too much of it went unsaid. I think he is unnerved by me and my magic. I left, but I do not know how I feel of the encounter.  
     We have returned to the road, one more in number, and now head south towards Redcliffe.  
     — _from the Warden-Commander’s personal journal_


	5. The Arl of Redcliffe

_"The royal arms chest—it’s where Cailan kept his father’s sword, the one he always said he’d slay the archdemon with."_

5 Solace, 9:30 Dragon,  
     We encountered darkspawn on the road, not a day away from the Circle Tower. These were little more than scouts, fewer than a dozen in number, and significantly less threatening in the wake of Uldred’s gruesome rebellion. Once one stands at the feet of a towering pride demon, human-shaped creatures in face paint seem far less.  
     Yet Wynne collapsed thereafter, though she ushered us aside and assured us that she needed no help. I thought it was all her work at the tower that left her so exhausted, but now I am not so sure. She is preoccupied, but we’ve yet to talk of it.  
     The road led into the Bannorn, and there we found a number of soldiers around a helpless man. We came upon him just as they ran him through. The soldiers turned on us. If darkspawn are naught in the wake of a pride demon, human soldiers are even less. The man was Elric, former member of King Cailan’s honor guard, and he had been taken prisoner for desertion. Before his death, he told us of a key King Cailan entrusted him with. It was an important key to an important chest that contained an important sword and important documents; therefore, he left it behind at camp. Nevertheless, Alistair and Wynne are optimistic the key is still there, somewhere. Let us hope the darkspawn do not take to decorating themselves with shiny things.  
     Rumors of Arl Eamon’s illness bother Alistair, but he and Wynne are both eager to return to Ostagar. Dane, too, seems earnest. Perhaps we will travel south when there is time.  
     After nightfall, Morrigan and I spoke of her magic. The sloth demon in the tower forced me into the Fade, and there I encountered imprisoned dreamers. I was able to lose my form and become something else entirely. My interest in her magic has never faded, and she has given thought to teaching me. But she is currently preoccupied with Flemeth’s grimoire, and she has grown increasingly anxious all night. Whenever I ask, however, she snaps irritably at me. So now I sit with Dane, who is more than willing to listen to my endless questions.  
      _—from the Warden-Commander’s personal journal_

_"They were quite a group. Actually, they felt like an extended family, since we were all cut off from our former lives."_

8 Solace, 9:30 Dragon,  
     There are nights when Alistair and I sit awake by the campfire and talk of the Grey Wardens. He shares stories that seem ill-fitting to the Grey Wardens’ grim reputation: of their drinking, their laughter, their silliness. The gallows’ humor reminds me of the Circle Tower. On those nights, we forget our pasts and troubles and live in memories. I could get lost in the stories he tells me.  
     Then the night grows old and Morrigan confides in me Flemeth’s terrible, child-eating secret. The sun dawns and an assassin lures us into a trap. The sun sets and Wynne tells me she is dead. My life is impossible to believe. Were I to tell any of these strange stories to the enchanters within the tower, they would box my ears for lying.  
     All of the last paragraph is true, dear journal. Morrigan has at last interpreted Flemeth’s ancient handwriting and discovered the core of what has vexed her these last few nights. Flemeth is animated by a demon of some kind, but her body ages and weakens as any other body would. Thus she raises a daughter and, when she comes of age, steals her body for herself. Morrigan is furious at herself, believing she has been too weak. She has asked what one would only ask of a very good friend: to go to the edge of the world and kill her mother. And I have agreed, but Redcliffe must come first.  
     Early this morning, after the sun had fully risen and we had pulled camp, we returned to the road and were lured into an ambush. The assassin responsible is Zevran Arainai of Antiva, hired by Teyrn Loghain himself. Zevran knows too little of the current tension—and I use that word lightly—between Loghain and the Grey Wardens. I ought to have killed him. But Leliana believes in second chances, and the man is so charming and lewd that he would have made Anders shiver in anticipation. He pledged himself to me, and I have agreed to take his oath. Zevran travels with us, but we watch him closely and carefully. Curiously, Dane is quite fond of him. This is a mark in his favor, to be sure.  
     The night ended with a note of death. Wynne has at last confessed that she is dead. She is the healthiest corpse that I have witnessed in a long time, but she did not take to the humor. It would seem that Flemeth is not the only one animated by a spirit, but Wynne’s scintillating friend is no demon. She believes it is a spirit of faith, here to give her time to see to her task—that is, to mother the last two Grey Wardens as they stumble about Ferelden like newborn foals.  
     Redcliffe is on the southern horizon. We will be there within a matter of days.  
      _—from the Warden-Commander’s personal journal_

_"Evil…things…surged from the castle."_

11 Solace, 9:30 Dragon,  
     We came upon Redcliffe at noontime, in time for dinner. Alistair had been anxious and apprehensive for the last few nights, but there he took me aside and confessed that he is, in fact, a bastard. We have spoken of his mother and Arl Eamon, but he has avoided the subject of his father, whom he has apparently known of all this time: the lost King Maric, who disappeared at sea a few years ago. I do admit, he bears a strong resemblance to King Cailan, who would be his half-brother.  
     Although Alistair has no intention to claim the throne for himself, it is not a secret to Arl Eamon and his family, and therefore I needed to be told. But there are no secrets amongst our group, in part because we can hardly get more than an arms’ length away from each other, and now all of my companions know of Alistair’s lewd secret.  
     We had hardly a chance to act upon this new information, as a man on the road explained Redcliffe has been assaulted over the last few nights. He brought us to Bann Teagan in the village chantry, who explained walking corpses have surged from the castle and attacked the village until dawn. The villagers’ hope is dwindling, and no one has heard anything from the castle. Magic could be responsible for such a thing, but what would a mage stand to gain from slaughtering an entire village?  
     So we have spent the afternoon working with Murdock, the village mayor, and Ser Perth, a knight. It was quite an afternoon, convincing drunken blacksmiths to light their forge, dwarven traders to take up arms, and an elven spy to redeem himself this night. We learned within the inn that Arl Rendon Howe of Highever has a special interest in something occurring at the castle, but we have yet to learn if this is relevant to the current predicament.  
     The village is half-drunk and armed. Wynne and I have steeled our minds for what will come. The swordsmen have sharpened their swords, and Leliana has resupplied her quiver with arrows.  
     While we await the first surge of walking dead from the castle, I think I shall go to the inn and have a drink. It would seem that a Ferelden-wide council was held while Alistair and I were in Ostagar, and the lot of them decided that a Blight is the perfect time to lose our minds.  
      _—from the Warden-Commander’s personal journal_

_"Whatever you do, Eamon is the priority here. If you have to, just get him out of there. Isolde, me, and anyone else…we’re expendable."_

12 Solace, 9:30 Dragon,  
     Though the men and women of Redcliffe were as desperate and close to death as the villagers of Lothering, their attitude was far different. I still recall the desperate men, caked in mud and dirt, that attacked us with farming equipment for a chance of claiming the bounty on our heads and feeding their families. The memory of their blood still causes my stomach to lurch.  
     Bann Teagan knew of Alistair’s recruitment to the Grey Wardens, and he embraced him without fear or recoil. I confess, I was quite relieved that Bann Teagan did not feel the need to remark, “I thought the Grey Wardens did not allow women into their order," as nearly every other person in Ferelden feels compelled to speak. In less than an hour, the important men and women of Redcliffe knew of our affiliation and the news began to trickle down to the frightened makeshift warriors and their huddled families. They were comforted by us. The bloodshed in Lothering was not repeated.  
     Perhaps the night was a victory. The villagers are quick to cheer and celebrate us. But I fear the night was a Pyrrhic victory, and another would devastate the few survivors of Redcliffe.  
     I feel strongly that magic is at work here. Corpses in varying states of decomposure surged forth from the castle, down the bridge, and into the village. The castle was locked during the day and Bann Teagan has been unable to enter; who is within and letting the undead loose? Ser Perth arranged barrels of oil into a narrow choke-point and set it aflame. The corpses staggered and swept through, but the burliest became too dangerous to fight close. The knights were unwilling to let me close to the creatures, but a flurry of ice magic was enough to douse the corpses and slow their run to a stagger.  
     Ser Perth and Murdock survived the night. Some of the villagers perished, but they all died in defense of their home. Not a single foul corpse encroached upon the chantry. It was a desperate night, but we have a brief relief.  
     Dawn came, pale and cold, and lit the sweat and grease and blood on our faces. We gathered in front of the chantry for a moment of celebration. The villagers have hope. Thereafter, we met Bann Teagan in the shadow of the windmill and discussed our plan to break into the castle. A burglar is not necessary, as he possessed the family ring, and it will give us access to a secret tunnel that runs beneath the castle.  
     The arlessa came upon us then. Perhaps she was not too concerned for the village, but she was nearly hysterical. The magic began its work in the castle long before it descended upon the village: there, the castle staff died and rose again to attack the living. This was not long after they imprisoned a mage who had been secretly poisoning Arl Eamon. The arl is unconscious, and the arlessa blames the mage for the devastation.  
     The mage—and she did not give a name—seems a likely suspect. But if he were to kill Arl Eamon on behalf of Loghain’s orders, why would he protect the arl from the undead? Why not let the corpses devour the man and his family and set them loose upon the village?  
     Arlessa Isolde did not tell us everything, and I doubt she will admit anymore. When I confronted her with the information, she gave me a look that would wilt a lesser woman. But when one spends enough time setting darkspawn on fire, one stops fearing a lone, thin noble.  
     Bann Teagan has chosen to honor her wish and return the castle with her. Arlessa Isolde fears whatever has her family—and I suspect it is a demon—will refuse outside help, and so we must sneak through the tunnels and break in, unbeknownst to the demon.  
     Let us hope there is not another pride demon within those halls. It would be the third in little more than a month, and I do not think I could take it. But after meeting Arlessa Isolde and witnessing her fragile ego, I think we can safely look forward to fighting the knee-caps of a fearsome demon.  
      _—from the Warden-Commander’s personal journal_

_"Grey Warden...please don't hurt my son! He's not responsible for what he does!"_

12 Solace, 9:30 Dragon,  
     Arlessa Isolde blamed a mage for the last nights' massacre. She called him an infiltrator, one of the castle staff that had secretly poisoned her husband. She took care in not explaining that this mage was hired to tutor her son in secret, for her son was a mage himself, or that this mage was an apostate, or a convicted maleficar, or wanted from crimes against the First Enchanter and Knight-Commander, or—  
     Here is where Dane whimpers and pines, pawing at my robes, because I have worked myself into a fury.  
     The mage in question is Jowan. My brother! After his escape from the tower, he came into Loghain's custody somehow. Loghain heard rumor that Arlessa Isolde sought an apostate tutor for her son, and he sent Jowan with instructions to poison and kill Arl Eamon. He claimed Arl Eamon was a threat to Ferelden.  
     I was furious. I am furious. I am shaking as I write this. True, Jowan could not possibly have known that Loghain marched away from a massacre he allowed to happen as these events were beginning to unravel. But I wish...something...I do not know. I am too angry.  
     So I sent Jowan away. I told him never to return. Jowan apologized again and left. My companions are not happy with my decision.  
     The castle was alive with the dead: decomposing corpses walked the corridors and attacked us on sight. The only living guards were within the entrance hall. There we found Arlessa Isolde and her son, Connor, watching a possessed Bann Teagan put on a performance for them.  
     Connor was clearly possessed by a demon of some kind. Like Uldred, he did not have any of the marks of an abomination. Yet he acted as if he were someone else entirely. Then he sent Bann Teagan and the guards to attack us and fled. We killed the guards and subdued Teagan. It was difficult: the man is a better warrior than he claimed, and I may have broken his nose to prevent him from removing my head.  
     As we recovered from the battle, we discussed Connor's fate. The boy is an abomination. The templars would kill him on the spot, and I would avoid any kinship with them as much as possible. The demon controls Connor from the Fade. With sufficient lyrium and mages, one could enter the Fade and drive out or kill the demon. I have chosen to travel to the Circle Tower, as the Circle of Magi would have a vested interest in the survival of a powerful arl's heir--even if he is no longer a suitable heir.  
     The surviving guards and Bann Teagan will monitor the boy. They will kill him if he attacks while we are gone. We will travel by boat to the Circle Tower. The harbor master is in grief, having lost his wife in the attacks before our arrival, and will leave no sooner than tomorrow morning. The day is old and night is upon us.  
     I am tired, but I cannot sleep. It is frustrating to think the slaughter has been allowed because a mother was unable to release her child to the Circle of Magi. But...I was raised by the Circle of Magi. I know the fate she is trying to avoid.  
     I fear this method will only delay the inevitable. The Chantry will not be pleased to learn their new apprentice has already been possessed once and is responsible for the deaths of hundreds of people.  
      _—from the Warden-Commander's personal journal_

_"Connor invited her to come, and they struck a bargain."_

14 Solace, 9:30 Dragon,  
     We sailed north into Lake Calenhad from the Redcliffe docks. As I suspected, Irving was particularly interested when I mentioned Arl Eamon’s son. The Circle of Magi has made exceptions for the wealthy and the powerful in the past: Finn was the son of nobility, and the Chantry permitted extended contact between him and his family, whom curiously still wanted something to do with him.  
     There was no rest for us when we returned to the castle. Sten was distinctly uncomfortable with the ritual. He had opted for the death of the child; typical, as his people are remarkably narrow-minded when it concerns magic. I thought Alistair might agree, but he has been vocally supportive of this plan since it was first announced. Now I understand he feels obligated to serve Arl Eamon to his best; he still feels indebted to the arl.  
     Irving and the senior enchanters prepared the ritual and the lyrium, and I chose to enter the Fade myself. It was an unsettling experience, and I found myself on a desolate landscape surrounded by spirits resembling Connor. I eventually came upon Arl Eamon, who was not aware of the Fade and desperately searching for his son. He is a mundane politician, and so I bid him to wait while I went into the Fade without him.  
     I encountered Connor several times: they were each a demon, meant to confuse and mislead. In the heart of the territory, I found the Desire Demon herself. She attempted to lure me into a dialogue and promise my heart’s desire, but I ended the conversation swiftly. Her words were like honey, something to be cherished and needed, and I had to untangle myself quickly before I was ensnared by her web.  
     A desire demon is powerful, but they have the weaknesses of the average mage. They are fleshy and physically weak, prone to ice and entropy magic, and attack from afar. It was a duel of willpower and magic, and she eventually succumbed to my magic.  
     When I returned, Connor was himself again. The boy has no memory of the horrific events that have transpired. Arl Eamon is unconscious, and Arlessa Isolde and Bann Teagan both have bid us to travel to Denerim in search of Brother Genitivi. The brother sought the Urn of Sacred Ashes, and the arlessa believes only that may cure the arl. I am not altogether convinced, but if I can gather leads from Genitivi, I can send word to the knights abroad. Perhaps we can find another cure in Denerim.  
     The castle has begun to recover. The servants clean the blood from the falls, and the surviving guardsmen have begun their training. The dead have been sent to the crematorium. The villagers are relieved for the walking dead have ceased; now they worry about the encroaching darkspawn.  
     We leave at dawn for Denerim.  
      _—from the Warden-Commander’s personal journal_


	6. The Urn of Sacred Ashes

_"Everything changes, my friend."_

19 Solace, 9:30 Dragon,  
     Though we planned to travel south after securing the alliance with Redcliffe, Alistair and I have decided the present circumstances are too dire. Particularly with Morrigan’s skin-wearing mother. We cannot return to darkspawn-infested grounds and confront an ancient Witch of the Wilds without first securing someone reputable on our side.  
     The road has become increasingly dangerous. We were cornered by a hurlock emissary yesterday, and we might have perished were it not for Wynne. They say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks, but those people clearly have never worked with a Spirit of Faith before. She tapped into the reserves of the spirit and healed us quickly and efficiently enough that we could behead the emissary before it could catch us in a firestorm a second time. The pain in my lungs is already noticeably healed.  
     Wynne was drained and exhausted for the rest of the day. It is not a talent to be used frequently, but it is particularly helpful.  
     I have spent the last few days speaking with my companions. Our group has grown quite large, populated with more than a few murderers, and I find myself charmed by the lot of them. We are a walking collection of regrets; it is fantastic.  
     Before we left the castle, I found a locket. It was an old locket, and I showed it to Alistair. He recognized it as his own, his mother’s locket, and it filled him with some amount of grief and determination for Arl Eamon. Alistair has also mentioned that he learned of a sister on his mother’s side, before Ostagar, and he would like to speak with her while we are in Denerim.  
     Leliana has been an enigma for a woman who so enjoys talking. Ever since she confronted the spy in Redcliffe, I have wondered about her. She admitted her former life as a bard within Orlais, but she has not yet spoken of how she came to be in Ferelden. She claims it was bad weather, but I have my doubts. Yet she seemed particularly grateful when I gifted her with a small bouquet of Andraste’s Grace, pale wildflowers; she even kissed my cheek. Perhaps she was a spy, but I frequently find myself unable to care.  
     Zevran has been quite honest since the moment I kicked him awake after his failed assassination. He is the son of a whore, bought by the Antivan Crows when he was a child of seven and raised to be a ruthless killer. Though he enjoys assassination, he was dissatisfied with his expendable life. Alistair is not convinced of his oath, but I am.  
     In truth, I am beginning to suspect jealousy on Alistair’s part. Templars are taught to be pious and chaste. They can marry and have children, but they do not flaunt their sexuality as mages do. (Some do, actually, and that is either terrifying or thrilling, depending on the templar.) Mages do not fall in love: we have quick trysts in the corner, with our robes still on, and we openly flirt with one another.  
     There are many folk that turn their nose up at this, but I have found a delightful amount of people that respond positively. Leliana may seem chaste on the surface, but there is a clever girl beneath that facade. Zevran is depraved, and I truly write that as a compliment. Morrigan is beautiful and wild, and I am ever drawn to her.  
     I must confess, dear journal, I still have pleasant dreams between my nightmares. When there is no Archdemon and no darkspawn, I dream of wild fields…and a young templar that eagerly awaits with a proposal. But that is a dream. Nothing more.  
      _—from the Warden-Commander’s personal journal_

_"It’s Marjolaine…has to be."_

24 Solace, 9:30 Dragon,  
     Once I asked Leliana why she left Orlais; she claimed she had traveled to Lothering and sheltered in the chantry to escape bad weather. The other night, she came to me and confessed the truth: her bard-mistress had sent her to kill an important man with important documents, but she was not to look at them. She did, naturally, and discovered her mistress’ treason against Orlais. But Leliana was naive and went to her, fearing for her safety. Her mistress altered the documents to make Leliana look the traitor and arranged for her capture. Leliana escaped and fled to Ferelden.  
     My companions are all guilty of various crimes. Perhaps it is this that causes them to accept her, more or less. I do not think I have anything to fear from her.  
     We encountered a merchant on the road with a golem control rod. He gave it to me for free, claiming the golem itself is in a village called Honnleath. But the village is overrun by darkspawn and a week to the south and west. The golem will have to wait. Hopefully the villagers were evacuated before the darkspawn arrived.  
     Earlier today, mercenaries and an apostate drew us off the road and attacked us. Leliana bid us to stop before we killed the leader. Her instincts were right: the man was hired by another man, and she suspects their employer was Marjolaine, her former bard-mistress. The mercenary was to travel to Denerim for his payment. We have decided to begin our search there.  
     Denerim is perhaps less than a week to the east. Alistair and Leliana have business within the city. Our stay will be longer than I’m comfortable with. I do not want Loghain to discover us while our only allies are the Circle of Magi, so we will have to travel without drawing further attention to ourselves.  
      _—from the Warden-Commander’s personal journal_

_"I gave you a chance to turn aside and forget you ever heard of Genitivi and the Urn. But you persisted."_

30 Solace, 9:30 Dragon,  
     We arrived in Denerim late last night. I have not visited a city so huge in…a very long time. There are thousands of people packed together here, where the streets are built atop streets and the buildings threaten to overflow into the river. It is overwhelming.  
     With a bit of help from my friends, I found myself in contact with two capable men.  
     The first is Sergeant Kylon. He explained my likeness has been passed through some of the guards, and he repeated the rumors that Loghain blames the Grey Wardens for the massacre at Ostagar. He added the Guard-Captain answers to Arl Howe, and Arl Howe’s men are about as criminal as the men they are expected to arrest. Sergeant Kylon lamented the guardsmen are of no use in the city, as his men are far too incompetent.  
     The second is Slim Couldry, an elf-blooded man from the Alienage. He managed a glance at the sketch given to the guardsmen and recognized me by sight. He is good for his contacts, and he knows which nobles are the most corrupt.  
     Neither believe Loghain’s lies, and for that I am grateful. Sergeant Kylon has overlooked our presence for the moment.  
     We found Brother Genitivi’s home on the outskirts of the Market District. There was a man there claiming to be Weylon. He explained Genitivi had left for Lake Calenhad and had not sent word in a long while. But the longer we talked, the more his story fell apart, and I exposed him for the liar he was. The false Weylon then attacked us—with magic! He was an apostate, and he fought to the death.  
     In the bedchamber, we found documents concerning Genitivi’s research. He traveled to a small village called Haven in the far west, in the Frostback Mountains. None of my companions have ever heard of this particular village, and I am uneasy. That man was an apostate, and he clearly did not work alone. What will we find in Haven?  
      _—from the Warden-Commander’s personal journal_

_"Well that was…not what I expected. To put it lightly."_

1 August, 9:30 Dragon,  
     For the moment, we have the chance to take advantage of Denerim’s large resources. We will leave for Haven tomorrow.  
     There was also the matter of Alistair’s and Leliana’s business. First thing in the morning, Alistair and I found his sister’s house outside the Alienage. The woman inside was indeed his sister: a shrieking, bitter harpy. Perhaps I should be kinder—if I had five children, I would go mad—but the experience was distinctly unsettling and reminded me why I would never want to have children. Yet Goldanna claimed to have known of Alistair’s heritage, but was told as a child that he was stillborn. She experienced no joy in their reunion and only wanted coin. We departed quickly.  
     In the afternoon, we followed the directions to the mercenary’s payment location. The house was simple and accommodating, and within was an Orlesian woman that appeared more preoccupied with the stench of Ferelden than her failed plans. Perhaps it was a ruse, as Marjolaine was more cunning than she initially appeared. She eventually admitted that she must kill Leliana for her own safety.  
     Although Marjolaine and her mercenaries are now dead, the experience has troubled Leliana. Marjolaine claimed they were the same and those words weigh heavily on Leliana’s heart. Yet I am not bothered. I suspect it has something to do with growing up in an environment where everyone felt the need to tell me what an awful abomination I could turn out to be, or that I was cursed by the Maker for having the audacity of being born. We are all dangerous. She’s simply quieter about it. I think Leliana appreciated my words, and she is thinking over them now.  
     Alistair is still burdened by the reunion with his sister. I was thinking of Jowan when I spoke to him. Jowan and I are not related by blood, but we bonded within the tower and I consider him family. It hurt that he would betray us, and his betrayal put him in Loghain’s custody. My entire life has been spent obeying the orders of others, and here I am: a free Grey Warden, blamed by the Hero of River Dane for a slaughter I did not partake in, reviled by common folk for something beyond my control.  
     I may have been too hard with Alistair, too jaded and bitter, but it is difficult to control at times. And I am not the only one the country blames for the death of their king. Alistair is a Grey Warden too. We both carry that burden.  
     Others take what they want and cast us aside with no thought for us thereafter. The Circle of Magi, the Chantry, Loghain and his believers…even my own family in Kirkwall cares not for what became of me. It is all too much sometimes.  
      _—from the Warden-Commander’s personal journal_

_"We don’t owe you any explanations for our actions. We have a sacred duty; failure to protect Her would be a greater sin."_

24 August, 9:30 Dragon,  
     The lords and ladies have been called away by Loghain and taken their men with them; the darkspawn roam the Bannorn relatively unhindered. When Bodahn repeats rumors of villages lost to the darkspawn—particularly Lothering, which is presently nothing but blighted ground and ghouls—it is frustrating to endure. We must move with wisdom and caution. And when all else fails, use fire. The darkspawn are particularly flammable.  
     I must still look to Alistair for signs of the darkspawn, for my own “connection" to the darkspawn taint has yet to properly manifest. Although I feel a buzzing in the back of my skull, like a bee, I am unused to feeling for the darkspawn. It is a connection I must actively tap into, whereas it is second nature for Alistair.  
     Mages meditate every day. I see the Archdemon when I close my eyes, in all its rotting and foul glory. My skin crawls. There is whispering somewhere deep in my blood.  
     We arrived at Haven at noontime, only to encounter a rather surly guard who demanded we leave as soon as possible. Perhaps it was this that put Sten over the edge. He has been quiet and distant for the last three weeks, but it is difficult to tell when he is not annoyed. Yet he stopped me in the village square—unoccupied, because the villagers were all at their chantry—and attempted to take command from me.  
     It is odd to think of myself as the leader, but I am, aren’t I? Sten unsheathed his greatsword and prepared for a fight. Alistair and Leliana moved to intervene, but I did not let them. The qunari are an odd people; perhaps it was best that we settle the matter his way. Sten was a touch more understanding after being on the wrong end of my spells, but I nearly regret it. He is fast for a big man and as strong as he appears. I will have several new scars from our encounter, but I am oddly proud of them.  
     A little bloodier than we started, we continued onto the local store. He was adamant that we not go into the back; so we did. And there we found the corpse of a knight in Redcliffe colors. The shopkeep attacked us and fought us to the death. When we emerged, villagers formed a mob and attacked us with weapons and magic.  
     The rest of their populace was within the chantry, so we took advantage of the quiet to search the nearby houses for any other knights. We found none, only an altar soaked with a massive amount of blood.  
     We traveled to the chantry and found the revered father within. Revered Father Eirik attempted a cool sort of welcome, but after so many corpses and blood and apostates, we were far beyond that. He revealed himself an apostate, and he and his guardsmen attacked us. The villagers scattered. Alistair ran the revered father through and left his corpse on the floor. We searched him and found an odd medallion on his person.  
     So we searched the rest of the chantry for signs of Brother Genitivi and found him beyond a false wall. The villagers have been questioning him about all sorts of mundane aspects of his life; I suspect they planned to send a false Genitivi, as they did with Weylon. His leg is injured, but he is mobile and determined.  
     There is a temple atop the mountain, locked by the revered father’s medallion. I am apprehensive about the journey. Who knows what we will find on the mountain-top? (More ritual sacrifices and apostates, I presume. The Chantry would be thrilled with such a discovery.) But this is Ferelden. At least we have already packed for the cold.  
      _—from the Warden-Commander’s personal journal_

_"The prophet Andraste has overcome death itself and has returned to Her faithful in a form more radiant than you can imagine!"_

1 Kingsway, 9:30 Dragon,  
     The temple is less than a week into the Frostback Mountains, but Brother Genitivi’s injured leg added two days to our travel. It is bitterly cold, and the snow is several feet deep. Even our thickest clothes felt too light for the march into the mountains, and it seemed that we would never feel warm again.  
     Brother Genitivi led the way to the best of his ability, and Wynne and I spent our mana on magelights to keep the path lit. The wind howled so loudly that even my nightmares were mute. Yet the temple stood at the end of the trail, as promised. Or perhaps I froze on the trail and all this is a terrible dream woven together by wisps in the Fade.  
     The temple is huge and ancient. There are parts in ruin, and the snow has come inside. Beneath the snow and ice are ancient depictions of Andraste’s life. Brother Genitivi remained at the entrance to study the engravings, and I have left my companions with him to protect him.  
     The cultists call themselves “the Disciples of Andraste." They allow apostates amidst their ranks and have no templars, and the priests are all men. Dragonlings—wingless young dragons the size of Dane—stalk the half-sunken corridors. The male priests, free-practicing mages, and connection to dragons make me suspect they were once connected to Tevinter. But their connections are lost. Haven is its own entity, separate from the rest of the world.  
     Deep within the temple, past the crazed villagers and their apostates, we encountered a madman. He was armed, with men and mages at his heels, and he ranted that Andraste Herself had risen from the dead. He had a temper to fit his faith, and he ordered his men to attack once we disagreed.  
     There is another temple on this mountaintop, connected with a crumbling bridge. If the Urn of Sacred Ashes exists, it is within that temple. We’re at rest for the moment, and I have healed my companions of their injuries. After a bite of food, we will continue.  
      _—from the Warden-Commander’s personal journal_

_"Do you believe you failed Jowan?"_

2 Kingsway, 9:30 Dragon,  
     We followed the caverns beyond the high priest’s chamber and eventually emerged onto the mountain-top. The sun was blinding on the white snow, but we heard the distinct cry of a dragon and quickly sought shelter in the shadows. We watched from cover as a great high dragon soared through the air and settled on a perch above the far temple’s entrance.  
     With the priest’s horn in hand, we traveled into the open area. I blew through the horn, which let out a deep reverberating sound that shook me to my bones. Perhaps the high dragon was as bothered by the sound as I, or she was annoyed that we had interrupted her nap, or she quickly saw that we were not the high priest. Whatever the reason, the high dragon soared towards us with an open mouth, spewing a great column of fire before her.  
     The battle to follow was hard and bloody. A high dragon is a fearsome creature, all claws and snapping jowls and long neck. She spit fire and swatted at us. Leliana and I stood out of distance and rain arrows and magic on her from afar. Alistair kept the dragon’s attention on himself; Sten and Dane fought the dragon from the side, wary of her hindquarters and lashing tail. We were numb and brittle from the cold, and the dragon seemed impervious to damn near everything. But at last, she collapsed under the weight of her injuries and moved no more.  
     We bandaged wounds and healed injuries to the extent of my remaining mana, then continued onto the temple.  
     There we encountered the spirit of a man in shining armor. He was The Guardian, no more and no less, and he could see what eyes could not. The Guardian knew Jowan and his plight, and he questioned me about my regrets. It was a disturbing feeling, to look into the eyes of a spirit and know it could see everything about you. Much like looking into the eyes of a demon, but far less sinister. I withheld my answer. The Guardian questioned Alistair, Leliana, and Sten; he pronounced Dane free from regret.  
     We were allowed to continue into the temple, known as The Gauntlet. The Urn of Sacred Ashes awaited worthy pilgrims at the far end. I confess, dear journal, I was in disbelief that anything but an old vase awaited us. I was wrong, but I shall get to that when I do.  
     The first chamber was huge, with massive pillars supporting a high vaulted ceiling. Eight spirits awaited us within, blue and ethereal and dispassionate towards our cause. They had prepared riddles for us, and the experience recalled me to the Harrowing and the spirit of sloth. The spirits took the shape of Brona, Andraste’s mother; Ealisay, Her dear friend; Thane Shartan, the elven slave that won his freedom; Lady Vasilia, wife of Archon Hessarian; Maferath the Betrayer, Andraste’s husband; Archon Hessarian, responsible for Andraste’s burning; Disciple Cathaire, who led Andraste’s armies; and Disciple Havard, who claimed to carry Her ashes to the mountain-top and build the temple around them.  
     I answered their riddles, withholding any smart talk lest it damage our cause (it could be Andraste was not fond of sarcasm). The door at the far end of the chamber opened, and there stood Jowan. Or a spirit that looked like him. The encounter has put a new fear in my heart: has Jowan died? Is he safe? I have not seen him since he fled the dungeons beneath Redcliffe Castle. This Jowan knew I withheld my answer from The Guardian and questioned me about it. It was a brief encounter, and when he left, I felt cold and lonely.  
     Past Jowan, there was a smaller and darker chamber filled with spirits. These spirits resembled our lot, and they fought us with our magic and our skills. The battle was not as fearsome as the high dragon, but I found myself distinctly annoyed with my own arsenal of spells. The Other Me would hit us with primal magic and heal her fellows. The Other Dane was quite protective of her, and it took our combined strength to bring them down.  
     When the last spirit dissipated into nothingness, we entered an open chamber with huge stone steps around a pit of utter darkness. Stepping on one stone resulted in an ethereal stone manifesting somewhere in the pit. Stepping on two made the stone solid. Each step controlled a different portion of the bridge, but once one was across, the bridge returned in its full and solid glory. Creating the bridge took well over an hour, during which Dane eventually laid down and took a short nap.  
     The last chamber was far larger than any other we had thus far seen. There was an altar before a short wall of fire, telling us to shed our equipment and pass through the fire. As I removed my robes, I thought how terrible it would be if the last two Grey Wardens in Ferelden died as a result of walking into the fire. The fire was warm and painless, and the Guardian came forth as we emerged the other side. He pronounced us worthy of the ashes.  
     At the far end of the chamber, there were a set of massive stone steps leading to a marble statue of Andraste. This statue was unlike any other I have seen, as it more closely resembled the spirit of Brona and not the doe-eyed, small-lipped statues that adorn nobles’ estates and chantries. At the base was a golden urn, and within was a fine powder resembling dust.  
     Leliana and Alistair were rendered speechless; Sten could not have cared less. Perhaps I should be moved. Andraste was a great woman and, a few brave scholars insist, mage. But She is dead. And if this does not work, I do not know what I would do. Bann Teagan would have to lead the Redcliffe army, and I might break something over my own foolishness in believing the arlessa.  
     We returned to Brother Genitivi at the entrance of the temple. There were no cultists and no apostates. It was dark and quiet. The brother had gathered what he needed for the time being. He planned to return to an expedition. I agree with Alistair: that Urn ought to be self-replenishing if the pilgrims are to return to the temple. They might want to deal with the generations of cultists and apostates living at the base, as well.  
     Brother Genitivi travels with us for a time, until we reach the main road. He will return to Denerim to convince the Chantry of the truths he has seen. Our destination is Redcliffe. These ashes had better be useful for something, as it is not often one gets to desecrate a holy corpse and have the Grand Cleric’s praise.  
      _—from the Warden-Commander’s personal journal_

_"Dare I ask of your own mother?"_

12 Kingsway, 9:30 Dragon,  
     We parted with Brother Genitivi at the last village. He will hire a caravan to Denerim and continue his work there. Redcliffe is perhaps two days down the road. We will then learn if the ashes’ legends have any merit to them.  
     I have taken the time to speak with my companions. Alistair has returned to his thoughts of Goldanna. I thought I was too harsh with him, but he has accepted my words. Perhaps it is best. His is a tale of consistently being taken advantage of by others: Arl Eamon, Arlessa Isolde, the Grand Cleric, all of whom shoved him into the shadows and attempted to deny him a different life. (I dare not say “better," as I have yet to partake in the wild sex and massive feasts the rumors speak of.)  
     Leliana appears to have come to terms with Marjolaine’s death. Or, rather, she has come to terms with her previous life. The Guardian accused her of lying, and she eventually admitted the peace she felt within the chantry might have been boredom. The thought frightens her. I am not so bothered. All of the apprentices, myself included, hated the weekly sermons in the tower. We would sleep through them if the enchanters wouldn’t pinch us awake—not that the enchanters paid any more attention.  
     Within the village store in Haven, I happened upon a pair of Antivan leather boots. I gifted them to Zevran, and he is quite delighted with them. They fit him perfectly.  
     Sten has complimented me! Well, in his own way. He claimed I am “not as callow" as he originally thought. Our bloody confrontation in Haven’s village square seems to have earned me some of his respect.  
     I questioned Sten once more on his crimes at the farmhold. He is a convicted murderer, yet the man I have traveled with is not the sort to kill innocent men and women and children. Sten deigned to answer. He came to Ferelden to answer the Arishok’s question, “What is the Blight?" But he came with fellow qunari. They camped beside Lake Calenhad and were attacked by darkspawn. The farmers discovered him and nursed him back to health. When he recovered, he learned his brethren had perished and his sword was gone. It was then that he flew into a hysteria and killed the lot of him.  
     It took a bit of prying, but Sten eventually explained that he would be killed on sight by his own people without his sword. “A true warrior would not release his sword while he still lived," he claimed. I have a difficult time fathoming this sort of logic, but this is the same man whose respect I earned in combat. The qunari are foreign indeed, but I would like to return to Lake Calenhad and look for this sword.  
     Morrigan and I spoke a little of her mother. Flemeth is an abomination, but she is unlike any other abomination in Thedas. She is unique. Morrigan suspects even she does not know what she is now. Then she asked me of my own mother; I did not answer.  
     I was thinking of Jowan when I next spoke to Wynne, during our watch together last night. She confessed that she was unkind to her first apprentice, an elven lad by the name of Aneirin. He fled the tower and the templars hunted him down and killed him.  
     We all have our regrets. Some of us must carry the regrets of others.  
     Wynne’s tale reminds me of Jowan and Anders. Anders escaped from the tower over a half-dozen times, and each time I feared the templars would lose their patience with him and run him through. Jowan always wanted to escape the tower and live free. We all did. Sometimes I wonder if I would have the strength to escape were it not for Duncan’s recruitment. Would I be happy living in hiding, pretending I had not magic?  
     One of the apprentices, Keili, used to claim that magic is a curse. The Revered Mother filled her head with that nonsense. She tried it on all of us. Magic is not a curse…but it is no gift, either. Yet imagining a life without magic makes me feel as though I am imagining a life without an arm or leg or my senses. Magic is not a curse. It is simply a part of me.  
     This was something my mother and father could not comprehend. Flemeth is many terrible things, but she taught Morrigan how to face the templars and fight them. My own parents could not stand the shame of magic on the Amell lineage, and thus they turned me over to the templars willingly. I have not seen them since I was a little girl.  
     I recall Father was stone-faced when the templars arrived. Mother at least had the grace to cry.  
      _—from the Warden-Commander’s personal journal_

_"You have a responsibility, Alistair."_

15 Kingsway, 9:30 Dragon,  
     The far western roads were clear of bandits and darkspawn. It would seem the darkspawn have progressed to the north of Ostagar, pouring into the Bannorn, but have not yet reached the mountain range. Thus we were able to travel with all due haste.  
     Bann Teagan found us in the entrance hall. Though he was initially skeptical of the Urn’s legitimacy, he confessed that their search for alternative cures has not slowed nor born fruit. He was delighted with the presence of the sacred ashes.  
     We carried them to the second floor, to the arl’s bedchamber. He rested within, as still and pale as he was before our journey into the mountains. The healer used the ashes with his healing spell. There was a moment of silence…  
     …then an inhale. Arl Eamon breathed deeply and opened his eyes.  
     The arlessa and Bann Teagan spent several hours with him thereafter, explaining the slaughter that had taken place in his absence. Arl Eamon seemed to recall it as a vague dream. He is somewhat aware of his imprisonment within the Fade.  
     Yet he wasted no time in preparations. Arl Eamon was quick to grasp Loghain’s betrayal. He has decided that he will spread word of the damages he has caused, both within Redcliffe and Ostagar. And the arl is dissatisfied with Queen Anora’s reign as queen. He believes she is too loyal to her father, or perhaps she has allied with him, and thus he intends to put forth Alistair as the heir to the throne.  
     Alistair was furious. He has no intention of becoming the king. Arl Eamon was firm in his response, allowing no room for argument, declaring that he would be forced to support Loghain if Alistair did not accept the claim. Alistair succumbed quickly, but he has been in a foul mood ever since.  
     For the moment, I have decided to support Arl Eamon’s plan. In truth, I need Alistair as a Grey Warden. We are only two in number, against an entire Blight, and I need every Grey Warden available. But the arl has a point: the queen is Loghain’s daughter. It is not unthinkable that she would be his staunch supporter, given that, according to Bodahn, she has already declared him her regent.  
     I would rather confront Queen Anora before declaring any support, but that must wait. The Blight, and the slowly-amassing army, must come first.  
      _—from the Warden-Commander’s personal journal_


End file.
